Never compare me to the mayor in Jaws! Never!

(SPOILERS) Paul
Feig is a better director than Ivan Reitman, or at very least he’s savvy enough
to gather technicians around him who make his films look good, but that hasn’t helped
make his Ghostbusters remake (or
reboot) a better movie than the original, and that’s even with the original not
even being that great a movie in the first place.

Along which
lines, I’d lay no claims to the 1984 movie being some kind of auteurist gem,
but it does make some capital from the polarising forces of Aykroyd’s
ultra-geekiness on the subject of spooks and Murray’s “I’m just here for the
asides” irreverence. In contrast, Feig’s picture is all about treating the
subject as he does any other genre, be it cop, or spy, or romcom. There’s no
great affection, merely a reliably professional approach, one minded to ensure
that a generous quota of gags (on-topic not required) can be pumped out via abundant
improv sessions.

So there’s
nothing terribly wrong with Ghostbusters,
but aside from Katie McKinnon, who manages to be weird, goofy, and occasionally
mocking in the Murray sense (but never in an actual “winking at the audience”
sense, which may be where this gets the mixture slightly off), there’s nothing
hugely right about it either.

Kristen
Wiig and Melissa McCarthy are fine, but dialled-down versions of themselves,
particularly the latter, who doesn’t seem quite in her element when she can’t
go off into some expletive- or obscenity-fuelled meltdown (a McCarthy possessed
sequence should have been a comedy goldmine, but it’s disappointingly uncreative).

Leslie
Jones might have been given some good lines, but all I can remember is that her
character is a glorified NY tour guide. As such, it’s difficult to banish the
thought that she signifies the series repeating itself, the
patronisingly-included African-American cast member who joins the team late and
doesn’t quite fit.

At least
she does get some funny moments,
though. Ernie Hudson is more memorable in 30 seconds here than in the entirety
of the original, and fares best – such as these things are – out of the cast
members’ entirely redundant cameos, which are generally flat (Murray, Aykroyd)
or embarrassing (Weaver).

The opening
sequence, and the then trio’s first encounter with a ghost, suggests there may
be some attempt at making a spooky comedy that’s actually comedic and spooky, but Feig quickly forgets
about the latter (oddly, as ensuring an alternating current of frights and
chuckles seems to be an entirely obvious, essential even, mechanism that
shouldn’t need saying, but there you go; McKinnon freaking everyone out by
eating Pringles is exactly what this needed more of, rather than running gags
about takeaway). He’s also much less interested in keeping a grip on the
storyline than seeing how randomly any given piece of improv can go off at a
tangent – which occasionally yields great results (the “Mike Hat” routine is
gloriously absurd), but adds to the feeling no one here is really invested in
the subject matter.

That’s only
added to by the derivate villain (Neil Casey), who seems to be borrowed
wholesale from The Incredibles, and a
finale that is lethargically, noisily effects-driven, one that even has the
cheek to attempt to inject an inert emotional arc when Wiig plunges into an Avengers void to rescue McCarthy (and as
the final act in general shows, if there’s one thing that doesn’t mesh well
with this kind of movie, it’s trying to mesh together “hero” moments; the only upside is McKinnon's put-down on their return, "It's 2040. OurPresident is a plant!").

There’s a
brief burst of the proper Ghostbusters theme
early on – very welcome – but it only underlines how horrendous the cover
version is, and when Feig repeatedly assembles shots of the quartet in their
hearse, about to go bustin’, as an uber-cool moment, one can only conclude that
it isn’t, because it’s trying to overtly to recapture a cool moment, rather
than conjuring its own cool (that the picture is absent any such moment
emphasises how zeitgeist-unfriendly it is; the entire conversation has occurred
outside its content, aside from the moment or two that has invaded that
content).

You also see
this kind of playing to expectations elsewhere, in terms of Feig’s own
filmography. Chris Hemsworth has been cited as this movie’s the Stat, a
hitherto undiscovered, deadpan-genius essayer of idiots, but he isn’t nearly as
successful, as Feig is too self-conscious about how he has found “the next Stat”.
So Kevin’s role is beefed up into being possessed, and because Hemsworth can “do
funny” we keep cutting to him doing some business with his glasses, or
answering the phone like a dumbass, when that one thing he did the first time was
more than enough. Besides which, the funniest exchange by far comes from Andy
Garcia, who isn’t trying to be funny at all, accused of being like the mayor in
Jaws.

The effects
are reasonable, particularly the redone Slimer and a couple of early spooks.
Once we get to the full-on spectacular finale, it has devolved into a splurge
of redundant CGI, of course, complete with the incredibly unwise idea of the
Ghostbusters logo made demonic spectral force (if you really must give life to the advertising
materials of the ’84 hit, the subway graffiti is at least inoffensive); Sony
could have cut the conclusion and saved about $50m, considerable audience
fatigue, and probably guaranteed
profitability. An earlier sequence at a heavy metal concert is much more
effective, at least for eliciting some germane gags (alas, Ozzy Osbourne just has
to show up to, which says as much about the quality bar here as you need to
know).

The increasingly
tedious discussions about this being a female reboot, and the polarising
opinions thereon (the “Ghostbros”) that have ensued, have been great for a
perpetual motion machine of media headlines (the latest being Jones’ Twitter
abuse). Which has meant that’s all
the conversation has been about, and thus, that’s all the review conversation
has been about (The Guardian, as a self-appointed Misogynist-buster, ladled out
four different reviews, amongst their numerous think pieces); discussion of the
movie becomes tangential to rallying behind the nominal progressiveness of the
moviemakers.

As such,
part of the issue is that nothing has convinced anyone (leaving aside the very
vocal denouncers, who wouldn’t be swayed anyway) that this was something to
see, even after critics started giving it “It’s okay, actually” reviews, since
saying “It’s okay, actually” is damning with faint praise. It is okay, actually, because most of Feig’s
movies are okay (and, on that score, it comes in below Bridesmaids and Spy, but
above The Heat), actually, not
because it’s a particularly good Ghostbusters
movie.

What this
reboot needed was more of the kind of leftfield, anarchic energy the glorious McKinnon
brings to bear (interestingly, she seems to elicit Marmite responses, which on
balance is probably a good thing for a comedian to be able to boast; if they
ever decide to do a female Marx Bros movie – I don’t even know what I’m saying
here – she’s a shoe-in for a horn-honking randy Harpo). What Ghostbusters ‘16 has got is being a geek
property where the makers aren’t terribly interested in that geek property, and
are more emboldened by responding to their critics from within the frames of the movie (which has been met with positive
affirmations, but it’s less “clever satire” than rudimentary defensive
posturing, feeding the monkey) than getting on with making a good one.

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